Waiting
by Mrs. Shezza Watson-Holmes
Summary: John and his struggle after losing Sherlock. Rated teen for suicidal themes.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything! This story is based off of BBC Sherlock and I do not own it! **

**Please comment! This is my first fanfic EVER and I would love to know what you think! :)**

* * *

**Waiting**

John sat on the edge of his chair, shoulders tense and hands trembling. He stared at the gun in his hand as he reflected on the past four months. After he had lost Sherlock a few months ago, these somber flashbacks had become common place for him. John could not remember most of what had happened first few weeks after the fall. He could only remember bits and pieces, standing at the gravesite, sitting in the flat while people gave their condolences, wishing to be left alone. The nightmares on the other hand, he could recall with perfect clarity. It was the same every time he closed his eyes. Every night he finds himself looking up at Sherlock standing there on the rooftop. John stands frozen in horror, watching him slowly fall, and screaming Sherlock's name until his voice was lost and being unable to help.

John hadn't cried though, that came later after the people had left. Lestrade had insisted that John stay at his house for the two weeks following the fall. He had been a fantastic friend, making sure John ate and slept. Although they were both in mourning, life was still going on in the rest of London. When it was time to return to work, John decided to the flat. He had started having night terrors every night, and Lestrade tried to protest Johns leaving. John had put on his soldier face and said that he would be alight, so he left Lestrade's home for the empty flat. That was the first of many nights that John had found himself sitting across from Sherlock's empty chair, gun in hand.

As John had sat there, he was startled by a soft knock on the door. He shoved the gun back into his pocket and hurried to answer the door. Molly had stopped by to check on John and to bring him food. At her insistence, he had eaten part of the food so that she would not worry. John soon grew weary of trying to force conversation. He told Molly that he was exhausted and after she left, he went upstairs to his room.

* * *

John had lain in his bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep for fear of the flash backs that would come when he closed his eyes. After several hours of this, John had decided to take something so that he could forget his regrets long enough to fall asleep. He rummaged around in the medicine cabinet until he found some sleep aids from before he had met Sherlock. John had haphazardly shaken some pills into his hand. After popping the handful of pills into his mouth, he washed them down with a few glasses of scotch. Almost instantly John had begun to feel dizzy. He had barely made it back to bed before he was unconscious, enveloped in the quiet darkness.

The following morning, John had woken up with a splitting headache. His mind was fuzzy as he groggily stumbled down the stairs. He had fumbled around in the cabinet for two mugs so that he could make tea. He had a nagging feeling he was forgetting something, but he decided that it was just a side effect from his headache. As John made tea, one with sugar and one with milk, he decided to make breakfast. _"Sherlock, is strawberry jam alright on your toast?"_ John had called out over his shoulder. Unsurprised by the silence, he had made two slices of toast. Given what time it was Sherlock was probably in his mind palace and besides, John already knew Sherlock's jam preference. John loaded the tea and toast onto a tray and carried it into the living room.

John had paused in the doorway when saw that the room was vacant. For the briefest second, he had been confused as to where Sherlock was this early in the morning. The tray crashed to the floor as a wave of memories came flooding back to him. That had been when the first broken sob escaped John, after that they never seemed to end. Mrs. Hudson had heard the crash from downstairs. She had found John knelling on the floor, sobbing and reeking of alcohol. She knelt beside him, and when they had both stopped crying she sent John up to get a shower. When John entered to bathroom, he saw the medicine and scotch on the counter. Fighting tears, he had gathered them up and flung them into the trash, vowing never to give himself false hope again.

* * *

For the next few months John had alternated between being holding it together, and crippling depression. He would go to work for a few days, acting as if everything was normal. Then he would go for days on end unable to leave the flat. On those days, he had often sat holding his gun and staring at Sherlock's vacant seat. At first Johns friends would stop by, but one by one they had all become overwhelmed by the weight of his grief.

Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had stayed faithful though, and they alone continued to check on John despite his protests. John tried not to worry them, their phone calls and visits were often cut short with one of his exclamations of denial.

"_Thanks for the takeout Greg, but I'm fine."_

"_Molly, thank you for calling to check on me, but really I'm fine!"_

"_Mrs. Hudson stop fussing over me, __**I am **_**FINE!**"

John was not fine though, and he had worked hard to conceal it from ever one. There were other symptoms of his grief though, ones that were harder to hide.

John's eyes were perpetually bloodshot and sunken from all of the sleepless nights. He had lost about thirty pounds from stress and from forgetting to eat. What had caused him the most problems though, was the return of his PTSD. It had made him constantly nervous and he jumped at the slightest noise. His jumpiness had nearly caused an accident at work today, which is why they decided to let him go. John had become careless and absent minded, this had caused his coworkers to become concerned that his judgment as a doctor had become compromised.

As John had walked home after losing his job, he tallied up what he had in savings. He recognized that without his income from the hospital, he would have to leave Baker Street. That flat was his last tie to Sherlock, without it, it was as though there time together had only been a dream. This realization is what had brought John to where he is now, sitting in the empty flat with his gun.

John's hands trembled as he held the gun. He was not afraid to die; in reality he was quite eager to get it over with. Although John had never been particularly religious, he considered death to be with Sherlock. Losing him had been harder than John could have ever imagined. If Sherlock had been just another flat mate he could have moved on, god knows he had enough practice. John had lost so many friends and comrades in Afghanistan that he almost expected the loss now. If he was honest with himself though, he knew Sherlock had always been more than a friend.

John missed Sherlock in ways he would have never expected. He missed the way Sherlock would stand by the window lost in thought. With the sunlight softly accenting his cheekbones, he appeared almost angelic. John missed coming home to Sherlock lounging on the couch, a pile of striking lines and graceful angles. He longed for the way Sherlock's eyes would twinkle as he worked on a particularly challenging case, practically buzzing with energy.

John realized that he loved Sherlock in a way that he could never love anyone else, and that thought scared him. That meant that no matter what he did, John would never be able to fill the empty space that Sherlock had left. He couldn't possibly imagine going on for the rest of his life feeling like this. John did not think that he could stand one more day going through the motions, trying to fill the void.

John was no longer nervous, although he was still slightly on edge. To him death was an old friend, and John was determined to great it as such. He decided to write a note, because he had wished Sherlock had left one. He got up and quickly scribbled out an explanation to Molly, Harry, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. John kept his not short and sweet. He simply explained that he was very sorry to leave them, but he needed Sherlock. John made sure to tell them that this was in no way their fault; he just couldn't go on any longer. He folded the note carefully and set it on the table beside his chair. Slowly, John sat back down and pressed the gun against his temple.

* * *

John took deep breath and mentally prepared himself for the end. He decided would pull the trigger at 6:28, the same time he had lost Sherlock. Only two minutes left. He briefly considered calling the police so that they would know to come remove his body, but John hated the thought of Lestrade finding out about this through one of his employees. John glanced at the calendar on the wall and realized that it should not take long for someone to find him, because today was his birthday. "_Happy birthday to me" _John hummed to himself to pass the time. Twenty seconds to go. There was a rustling downstairs. "_Mrs. Hudson is at her sisters this week, it must be the postman."_ John told himself, he didn't want to be interrupted.

_**10\. 9. 8. **_ He heard the noise again, "must be setting a parcel in the hall."

_**5\. 4. 3. 2. 1.**_

The front door to the flat was flung open, causing John to jump and pull the trigger. _**BANG!**_ John was falling but he never felt himself hit the ground. His head was throbbing, but the pain was slowly ebbing. _Jawn, JAWN!_ He heard someone calling his name. As the pain died down, John decided to open his eyes to see where he was. His vision was blurry with the edges were black and closing in, as if he were looking through a tunnel that was growing smaller. John's heart fluttered as he looked up and saw that Sherlock was cradling his head in his lap.

"_That was quick."_ John moaned, barely above a whisper. "_I didn't realize you were waiting on me. I would have come sooner."_ John whispered with a smile. "_No John! Wait, hold on!" _Sherlock looked frightened and John was confused. "_It's alright, I was tired of waiting. I missed you."_ John sighed as his tunnel of vision grew dimmer. Everything was becoming muffled. The last thing John herd was Sherlock's voice crying. "_No John, Please! Wait, I lo-" _Sherlock did not get the chance to finish his sentence. John had already left, sinking into the peaceful darkness.


End file.
